


An Autumn Wedding

by voicedimplosives



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bodice-Ripper, Corsetry, Excessive Use of Ye Olde Timey Slang, F/M, Fluff, Frottage, Gamahuche, Heavy Petting, I'm Sorry, Irrumation, Loss of Virginity, Niagara Falls, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Size Kink, So Much Clothing, This Fic is Approximately 65 Percent Descriptions of Clothes You're Welcome Vee, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vermont, Victorian Attitudes, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, What Have I Done, victorian clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 03:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16400186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voicedimplosives/pseuds/voicedimplosives
Summary: But when she opened her eyes, she glanced back at her husband; he was watching her with rapt attention, his dark eyes lidded, clutching the fabric of her shirtwaist in his huge shaking fists.Well. She would only ever have the one honeymoon, wouldn’t she?“Rip it."His jaw dropped. “Did you—”“You heard me,” she said. “Rip. It. Off. Me.”He pulled at the garment until it stretched taut across her waist and bust. In a low, hoarse voice he asked, “Certain?”“Yes, husband.”





	An Autumn Wedding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arroways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arroways/gifts).



> For Vee, who begged on bended knee. (Also let me just say up here at the top that this is, without a doubt, the silliest, most crackpot, most plot-less bit of frippery I have ever committed to writing. But… I dunno. The heart wants what it wants.)
> 
> This is a sequel to [_**A Bit of Summer Cabbage**_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15962891). Do you need to read that story to understand this one? Eh, probably not. But it does have some backstory that I don't really delve into here. 
> 
> And some bathing suit-related shenanigans. ᕳ ͡°༼ ͜ʖ ͡°ᕲ
> 
> Also, while I have you here _[are you still here? I hope you are]_ , can I just take a second to marvel at how awesome it is to have a beta reader? It really is. I love it, I love beta-ing and I love having a beta, that there are people who volunteer their time so that our stories can be their best little selves. For this story, [Kat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryminded/pseuds/delia-pavorum), author of so many fantastic Tumblr prompts which can be found here, [_The Belonging You Seek_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553363/chapters/33626979), and [Becca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oscillateswildly/pseuds/oscillateswildly), author of the excellent [_phenomena_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16212791/chapters/37893734), were my beta readers. They are lovely people and writers, and I recommend checking out their stuff!

Flash, I am coming, I come,

  By meadow and stile and wood:

Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart,

  Into my heart and my blood!

              _[Marriage Morning](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/marriage-morning)_ , Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

 

####  **i. The Morning Of.**

 

‘Twas a marvelous morning for a wedding.

 

They’d waited until the tail end of September, when Autumn finally soothed the roaring beasts of heat and haze down into their yearly slumber, and New England had turned crisp, cool, rich with the sweet scents of chrysanthemum, wood stove, and apple.

 

And so on a clear and cloudless Wednesday morning, Miss Rey of Jakku was quite fit to be tied, and as eager to be a bride as any woman ever was.

 

Outside, the venerable old sugar maples and long-limbed white oaks that leant shade, privacy and serenity to the grounds of the Hotel Sunspire were all ablaze in the fiery tints of the season. Inside the hotel, Rey was nervous, to be sure; how could she not be? This was no ordinary Wednesday; today was _the_ day, at last, the much talked-about joining between herself and her affianced, the reformed blackguard Count Benjamin von Solo Organa Amidala Skywalker, of Chandrila.

 

In a tiny dressing room, surrounded by sweet-briar wallpaper and tapestries sporting chivalric scenes (not a window to be found, thank heavens the worst of summer’s heat had passed), Rey’s hands fluttered restlessly over her cotton chemise. Her soon-to-be mother-in-law, Countess Leia von Solo Organa Amidala Skywalker, of Chandrila, had, upon entering the dressing room, immediately seated herself in one of its velvet-cushioned armchairs. Presently, she pushed a porcelain teacup filled with black coffee into Rey’s hands.

 

“Drink, my dear,” she instructed, her throaty voice tempered with concern. “And eat something, if you can manage it.”

 

Rey blew across the coffee’s surface, warming her fingers against the teacup’s sides. She took a sip, then peered at Leia, considering. Finally, she spoke.

 

“I couldn’t possibly, Lady von Solo, I just—”

 

“What have I said about that?” The Countess leaned back in her chair, tapping her wooden cane on the thick carpet. “Please, Rey, you _must_ address me as Leia.”

 

In one of the many full-length mirrors standing around the cramped dressing room, Rey caught sight of Her Grace Duchess Rose Tico of Otomok, who stood at her back, nodding her endorsement of Leia’s order. At her side, Miss Kaydel Connix of Philadelphia tittered her own approbation, arching a well-plucked blonde brow at Rey when she turned to fix the heiress with an unamused glower.

 

“Hold still!” chided Rose, as she finished lacing together the last two eyelets of Rey’s steel-boned corset. It was a tad tighter than she normally wore it, and she winced; Leia chuckled understandingly, then settled deeper into the crimson cushions.

 

“Sorry… Leia,” she said. “I’m—I’m all nerves this morning, ‘m afraid. Wouldn’t be able to keep anything down.”

 

“Hm,” hummed Leia, twisting her palm around on the curved silver handle of her cane. “Rey. Customarily on a morning such as this, a bride’s mother would advise her daughter as to what… occurs upon the wedding night. Seeing as Lady Kanata has passed—God rest her soul—it would seem that the duty falls to me. To, er,” she paused, flicking an imaginary crumb from her satiny amethyst-hued skirt, “regale you of the… particulars.”

 

Rey was very grateful she had already swallowed her mouthful of coffee, otherwise it might have found itself rather violently expectorated onto her future mother-in-law’s face, upon taking her meaning.

 

“Lift your foot,” instructed Kaydel, who knelt in front of Rey, embroidered silk stocking in hand and expectation written upon her pretty face. Rey busied herself with complying, one hand in Rose’s for support, and tried to calm the raging blush that had climbed its way up her bust to her cheeks.

 

Calmly, Rose procured a fan from somewhere, and began to wave it about Rey’s face.

 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured.

 

To that Rose gave a placid nod, then jerked her chin in Leia’s direction. “The particulars, Miss Jakku,” she said, a smile stealing at the edges of her lips.

 

Rey sighed, and shifted back towards Leia. Chuckling, the matron reached into her beaded chatelaine purse, resting on a nearby table. She withdrew a frilly, almost frothy-looking scrap of ivory lace, threaded through with a sapphire blue ribbon, and held it out to Kaydel. “First things first. Miss Connix, affix that to our young bride’s limb, if you would be so kind.”

 

Smirking, Kaydel did as Leia bid her, sliding the garter up underneath Rey’s loose cotton drawers until it stretched tight, mid-thigh. Leia waggled her eyebrows, a gesture most unexpected from a lady of her age and station. “That’s something blue.”

 

Rey’s face grew warmer, despite Rose’s redoubled efforts to fan her. Those efforts brought wisps of chestnut brown hair down from the loose bun pinned atop of her head, in the Gibson Girl style, and they danced around in the artificial breeze. “Ah,” she squeaked.

 

“He’ll remove it later,” Leia imparted, sneaking a flask from the purse and pouring a generous serving of what smelled like whiskey into her own coffee.

 

“I—I am aware,” she managed to reply, timorous.

 

Leia gave Rey a bald look, knowing but not contemptuous, then drank deeply from her teacup. No, if Rey were to be asked later to identify the expression that had passed across the Countess’ face at that moment, she would wager to guess it was closer to amusement than accusation. Idly, Rey wondered how much she knew of Rey and the Count’s dealings.

 

In an effort to forestall the discussion of particulars, Rey turned to her friends. Having finished with the second stocking, Kaydel stood. “By the by… thank you again—Miss Connix, Your Grace—for helping me.” She smiled shyly at them; each grasped one of her hands, and she pulled them into a hearty embrace, which they returned readily. “I cannot _believe_ how terribly ill poor Beverly was struck, back in New York.”

 

“I could not think of anywhere I would rather be, than helping my very dearest friend prepare for her wedding day,” answered Rose, a bit wobbly. Kaydel sniffled in agreement.

 

“And your lady’s maid is in good hands with my butler,” added Leia. “Old Percival will have her on the mend in no time, I assure you.”

 

“Alright,” Kaydel said, after they had all held each other for a long moment, “back to your appareling.”

 

Thereon she wiped her eyes, and stepped towards the lacquered ebony folding screen that stood at the back wall of the dressing room, over which Rey’s many remaining garments had been flung. Returning with a delicate hip-length camisole and her gored silk petticoats, Kaydel handed the former to Rey so she might slip it over her head, before stepping into the latter, with the assistance of both women.

 

When Rose had begun tying up the petticoats’ laces, once more at her back, Leia let out a wistful sigh.

 

“Marry in September’s shine, your living will be rich and fine. And it _is_ going to be a beautiful day, Rey. Sunny and pleasant.”

 

“Marry on Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth,” Rose piped in. Rey hummed at that, then took another sip of the coffee Kaydel had returned to her hands.

 

“Wednesday the best of all,” supplied Kaydel.

 

“And damn the rest!” concluded Leia.

 

Rey huffed in scandalized delight. “Leia!”

 

“Oh pardon me, did you want Thursday for crosses? Friday for losses? Saturday, no luck at all? I should think _not_ ,” she sniffed, before hiding her smirk behind her teacup.

 

“And everyone knows you mustn’t marry on the Sabbath.” Kaydel shrugged as she spoke, as if that was self-evident, then retreated to the screen to fetch the final element, Rey’s gown.

 

“Back to my point,” Leia said, giving a light tap of her cane in an attempt to focus the young women’s straying attentions. “The wedding night.”

 

But presently it was _she_ who became distracted, at the sight of Rey’s modest, elegant bridal garb. Rey had elected not to wear the hand-me-down toilet of the Count’s grandmother, Her Royal Highness Princess Padmé Amidala, though if she had wanted to she would have been within her rights. It was undeniably a very pretty gown, if old-fashioned— a layer of thin alabaster lace overlaid a columnar silk sheath of the same color, almost indecently low cut at the bosom and the whole thing studded with real pearls that had been harvested from the seas of Amidala’s homeland, Naboo. Yet the princess, for all her charms, had barely stood above five feet, and Rey was far closer to six; it would never have fit her correctly without dramatic alterations, which Rey was loathe to administer to so priceless a royal heirloom.

 

Thus, the gown Kaydel and Rose were now easing her into was far more au courant; salt-white, gored just as her petticoats were to form a subtle bell shape and bearing a demi-train, but unembellished save for some ruched lace around her bust and at the hems. The gown’s neckline rose to just below her jaw, its brilliant white contrasting prettily with her unfashionably tanned and freckled face.

 

And though she had eschewed Padmé’s gown, she still had her something borrowed; among her other bridal accoutrement was Padmé’s veil— floral-patterned lace, encrusted with hundreds of flawless pearls, gathered in such a way that they looked rather like opalescent daisies. The trend of the day, a diadem fashioned from fresh-cut flowers, would be set aside, in this instance.

 

 _Tradition_ , her future husband had said beseechingly, and so rough had his voice been with longing that she could not find it in herself to deny him.

 

Before long, she was dressed. Rose straightened the cuffs of her narrow sleeves, brushed a few creases from her smooth white skirt, then sighed with satisfaction. Leia gazed at her, eyes misty. Gently, Kaydel took Rey by the shoulders, and turned her towards one of the mirrors.

 

The gown’s demi-train flowed like a shimmering ivory river behind her. A minute bit of padding in the skirt gave her a small bustle, nothing too ostentatious, and the gown nipped in at her tiny waist, a white satin ribbon encircling it in a manner most flattering. She offered herself a small smile. In the mirror, she watched Leia rise, and retrieve from a table her Nabooian night pearl earrings, an engagement gift from the Count. One at a time, she handed them to Rey.

 

“There. Something new. Hmph, my son is… most discerning. In all things,” she mused, pulling Rey’s hair down from its bun. With ease, she braided and pinned the tresses into a low chignon at the nape of Rey’s neck. The black pearls caught the light, gleaming silver-violet on her ears. Kaydel held out Padmé’s veil, and Leia fastened it over Rey’s hair; it clung close to the crown of her head like a cap before fluttering down to the floor around her.

 

“Oh, Rey,” Leia said, when she had ceased her fussing. “You look…”

 

But she did not finish her thought, seemingly unable. Rey reached back to grab Leia’s hand, and together they stared at their reflection, savoring the moment.

 

“He is a lucky man, my wayward son,” Leia choked out.

 

“As I am a lucky woman,” answered Rey, and to that, Leia squeezed her hand, then released it. She stepped away, and returned with a pair of white kid gloves and white brocade slippers.

 

“ _My_ wedding gloves,” she said, nodding at them. “Something old.” Rey pulled them on reverently, marveling at the perfect fit. Once shod, she wiggled her toes, and discovered that Leia had tucked a silver sixpence inside the left slipper.

 

Now she was dressed the part. And in truth, her stomach fluttered wildly with anticipation. In her heart there was only certainty: she was ready to be a bride, ready to be married, ready to embark upon her life with Benjamin.

 

“Your Grace, Miss Connix, might you give us a moment?” Leia turned to them with a watery smile.

 

“We had better be dressing ourselves before today’s events get underway,” Rose said, nodding graciously, and with one last embrace between the women, they departed.

 

“Now, the talk.” Their eyes caught in the mirror; Leia’s lip were twitching, her tone dry. “Need I even _give_ you the particulars? Or are you… already acquainted?”

 

“Not… fully,” Rey demurred, then after a moment’s deliberation, she amended: “Your son has a sentimental streak.”

 

From a hidden pocket in her skirts, Leia again procured the flask, which she uncorked and sipped from, directly, before handing to Rey.

 

“Got that from his father, I imagine. Well… have a sip of this, and take a seat,” she said, bemused. “Let’s see if I can’t dust off my memories, and walk you through the essentials.”

  
 

####  **ii. A Month Prior.**

 

 

In a lavishly appointed hotel room, done in the neoclassical style, warm notes of rose and gold and copper abounded, including the brocaded canopy hanging above their heads. Rey and Ben lay ensconced in a blistering, humid cocoon of bedclothes. Half-sunken into the Count’s goose-down mattress, their bodies, clad in only the most intimate layer of underthings— her flimsy cotton chemise, his tight flannel drawers— were entwined, heated, flushed.

 

A breeze ruffled the heavy drapes, bringing with it the sultry August evening: briny sea air, and fresh popped corn from the boardwalk, and riotous laughter, from the nearby amusement park where sun-drunk tourists were riding the rickety wooden roller coaster and playing carnival games. The members of their party were out there, mingling with other shore-goers, enjoying the night. Ostensibly, they had believed Rey and Ben’s shared excuses of exhaustion and dehydration, although considering the incident with the bathing machine earlier… Rey doubted it.

 

“Ben,” she whimpered, pushing her head back into the pillow and shoving her hips up towards his. In response, he renewed the pressure of his solid thigh between her legs. The searing throb was strongest there, enough to overpower her sensibilities completely, and she let her eyes slip closed when he began to rock against her.

 

“I’ve got you,” he promised quietly, all solemn intent.

 

It was breathtaking, the feel of his large body caging her in, so close— bread and butter fashion— his thigh just where she needed it. Unthinkingly, Rey began to rock as well, canting her hips so as to directly stimulate that livid little nub of flesh which brought her such unspeakable pleasure. He hummed approvingly against her cheek, pleased with her initiative. The resulting vibration in his chest, pressed as it was to hers, along with the tickle of his mustache against her cheek, made her moan; its pitch was so much higher, so much needier, so much louder than it ought to have been, that she cringed, and Ben—

 

Ben pressed his open mouth to hers, then swallowed the ensuant moan. “Hush now,” he murmured, never ceasing his movements, giving her no quarter from the tide rising within her, “…or you’ll bring the bellhop running.”

 

“Ben, please.”

 

“Didn’t I say that I’ve got you?”

 

“I want…” she trailed off, and instead of speaking, reached down to grasp his hard flannel-bound cock, which had been grinding against her hip.

 

Before she could attain a proper grip, he grabbed her wrist, bringing it up and pinning it beside her head.

 

“Aren’t we going to…?” She gasped, unable to finish her thought when his free hand slipped into under the frilly strap of her chemise. Gently, he tugged it down, until one small breast, mauve nipple already taut, was exposed to him.

 

“Not tonight,” he answered, before dipping his head to catch the bud between his lips.

 

“Oh!” Even now his thigh moved against her, a frisson of need sizzling down her spine as he rocked her higher, higher, higher, his mouth at her breast, it was altogether too much… what woman could keep her composure, under circumstances such as these? Still, somehow, she mustered the will to burrow her hands deep into his thick dark locks, slightly damp with perspiration, and tug his head up. He released her nipple with a wet ‘smack!’, then pouted at her for the intrusion. “Ben,” she intoned, attempting for a sober tone even while his hard thigh kept rolling against her, his heavy torso keeping hers pressed into the mattress. “You cannot be serious. After this afternoon, you mean to tell me you don’t want to—”

 

“No,” he interrupted. “Not yet. I want—on our wedding night. When you bear my ring, and my name.”

 

“But—”

 

“Is that so much to ask?” He stilled, pausing his ministrations to make an anxious study of her face.

 

“What does it matter?” she wondered aloud. Her palm against his cheek, she stroked the pad of her thumb down the scar that cleaved his pale skin. Lightning-fast, he shifted his head, brushing her palm with his lips. For a moment they remained like that: her wrist held fast to the pillow, his stationary thigh lodged between hers, his full lips pressing words she could not hear into her palm, between soft kisses.

 

And then, after a fashion, he spoke. “It is tradition. I have… made a mockery of so many traditions, cabbage. So much history—ruined. The past—burnt to cinder.”

 

She understood, then— what he was trying to give her, what he meant by denying her.

 

“Fine. I shall tend to you as you do with me—frottage,” she conceded sullenly, unable to keep the petulance from her voice. He peered down at her, utterly enigmatic, and she thought perhaps he might protest to even that. Her pout became a defiant scowl.

 

Craning his neck, he nipped at her lips until she relented, allowing his tongue into her mouth, teasing it with her own. This was still so new, this rapturous trick they had happened upon, sharing breath as their tongues danced. How she loved it; the bunched muscles of his arms gathering her to him, the smell of him— his own particular musk, underneath the mint and clary sage of his aftershave, the hint of leather that clung to his hands, and upon his lips, a smoky remnant of his Scotch nightcap—

 

“We shall save that one deed—” He reached down, to palm her sex through the chemise, “—for the wedding night?”

 

She sighed. “Yes.”

 

“Then you, my love, may do anything you please,” he told her. And with that, Miss Rey of Jakku, secreted away in the seaside hotel suite of Count Benjamin von Solo Organa Amidala Skywalker, resumed convivial society with her betrothed.

  
 

####  **iii. The Nuptials.**

 

 

Initially, the Count had suggested that they be wed in the grand cathedral that towered above Hanna City, the capital of Chandrila— seeing as Rey had no particular village in Chandrila to call her own nor any lingering love for her birthplace, England. However, Rey had soon made it quite clear that she had no interest in the pomp and circumstance which would surely accompany such an affair, and desired instead a quiet, almost anonymous espousing somewhere in the New World.

 

Over the course of several evenings spent strolling the Cape May boardwalk, the debate between the two would spark up into heated exchanges then die down into muted embers, only to be rekindled hours later, when the volley of ideas would blaze anew.

 

 _Tradition,_ he had reminded her, again and again.

 

 _My sanity,_ she had replied, each time.

 

And in the end, as she had bent for him on the question of conjugal abstinence, he bent for her on the question of locale.

 

Thusly, on that fine Wednesday morning, the last in September, Count von Solo found himself standing at the altar of a small, fieldstone-hewn chapel tucked into the surrounding forest of some insignificant hamlet in northern Vermont. Cheerful dappled sunbeams streaked in through the tall, narrow windows, warming the three dozen or so guests in attendance, who sat buzzing with excitement, gossiping amongst themselves about the hastily arranged festivities.

 

For in truth, they had not been intended to marry until the following Spring, and had announced as much when the banns were placed in all the most prominent newspapers of Europe and America. And that too— the issue of when— had been a matter of some contention between the bride and bridegroom, during those boardwalk perambulations.

 

 _March,_ he had suggested.

 

 _Tomorrow,_ she had teased, with a sly grin.

 

 _February_.

 

 _Next week_.

 

He had sighed then, and in an attempt to expedite their strange arbitration, returned with: _December. A Christmas wedding._

 

 _Two weeks hence,_ she’d said, the late summer breeze tugging at her cambric skirts.

 

 _The First of November,_ he’d volleyed. _A fête for All-Saints Day._

 

 _A month and a day_ , she’d proposed, laughing.

 

And Ben had looked at her then, at her sweet freckled face, cheeks dimpled by her brilliant smile, her sunny laugh, her neat form hidden beneath her evening gown and shawl— and he had wanted that too.

 

 _The last Wednesday in September,_ he’d said, _for luck._

 

 _We shan’t need it, darling, but I suppose it couldn’t hurt_.

 

Remembering that debate made him fidget, impatient to get on with it. He scanned the room again, ears pricked for the sound of her carriage, then glanced down at his black double-breasted waistcoat to ensure it was not disheveled. Absently, he smoothed a hand down his silk charcoal tie.

 

A hand reached out to pat him on the sleeve of his frock coat, and he shifted to glance at his best men, the self-made electricity magnates Misters Poe Dameron and Finn Ŝtormoŝipo.

 

“Got the morbs, old chum?” whispered Finn, “Take heart—she’ll be here any moment.”

 

“Yes, quite,” he grumbled.

 

Poe and Finn were dressed nigh identically to Ben: frock coat, waistcoat, tie. But where Ben had chosen black cashmere trousers, patent-leather button boots and kid gloves, their trousers were grey-striped and their gloves pale, as was en vogue for men of the wedding party. All three had worn black top hats to the church which had been set aside, awaiting the end of the ceremony— although in truth Ben rather hated them, as he already towered above nearly every soul he came across, and the top hat merely contributed to his ungainly height.

 

 _Tradition,_ he thought, squaring his shoulders. _As Han Solo would have wanted._

 

So he stared back at the guests, offering a respectful nod here and there; they were almost entirely associates of his mother, who was currently sequestered away in the Hotel Sunspire with his fiancée, although there were a few friends with whom Rey had become close in the months since they’d arrived in New York. ‘Twas an interestingly assorted crew, but all had at least managed to scrounge up appropriate attire: the women wore walking and visiting costumes with floral-festooned bonnets; the men were dressed not dissimilarly from himself and his groomsmen.

 

Faintly, he caught a sound: the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on cobblestone. They would be grey, and pulling a fine carriage, he imagined, as his mother had spared no expense in the areas where they had permitted her assistance.

 

Perhaps out of nervousness, he reached into his coat pocket to stroke the golden band that would soon adorn his beloved’s finger. Customarily it was the job of a ring bearer to carry it down the aisle, some boy in a velvet jacket and short trousers, but he and Rey had done away with all that in favor of a simpler wedding party: Ben and his bride, his mother, his groomsmen, and her maids of honor.

 

The sound of hooves’ grew in volume, and then abruptly ceased. She was here, outside the chapel, his blushing bride. And she _was_ blushing, he noticed, once she appeared— after the organist started up his hymnal and her lady friends, clad in soft coral toilet, had passed down the aisle to take their place beside the altar.

 

Ben hardly noticed her gown, enraptured as he was by her flushed cheeks _just_ visible through his grandmother’s veil, clutching a crimson spinebarrel bouquet in her gloved hand, the same flower that had been gathered into a boutonniere at his lapel. She walked slowly, her arm looped over that of his uncle Chevy; the moment seemed to resonate like a jingling bell within Ben’s soul, and he was sure that the echoes of it would ring merrily throughout the remainder of his earthly existence.

 

His _bride_. His eyes sought hers, and found them beneath the lace; they were shining bright as ever, bright green like the moss that grew on the rocks of this sleepy place, and riveted to his. She was smiling.

 

Ben sighed, with relief and joy. His beautiful bride was here, and now the day could truly begin.

 

 

####  **iv. A Week Prior.**

 

 

The village in which they’d chosen to be married, a tiny lakeside settlement named Eden, was not easy to access from Manhattan. They’d gone by rail, and had had to transfer several times, with nights spent in Boston and Burlington. New England’s old regional lines were slow, their trains rickety. Yet the couple had enjoyed the plodding northward journey; the foliage passing outside their windows glowed emerald green, and spessartine orange, and citrine yellow, and ruby red— each tree a bouquet of precious, fiery gems.

 

In point of fact, they had purposefully elected to take a slow route that would necessitate accommodation within the Green Mountain Railway’s sleeping car, so as to allow themselves extra time to enjoy the view. And although the Countess had agreed to come along and serve as chaperone on their sojourn, she had still reserved separate single-passenger roomettes for her son, her future daughter-in-law, and herself.

 

“Of course,” she had said, eyes twinkling with mischief, “you two _cannot_ share a berth. But neither should Miss Jakku be subjected to my nocturnal expirations and sibilations! A compromise, then—I shall be placed in the roomette directly beside Miss Jakku’s, so as to ensure there is no—” and here she had paused momentarily, whilst trying to restrain a chuckle, “…joining of giblets.”

 

Rey and Ben had both sputtered out a choked protest at the implication, which Leia had waved away with a gloved hand, and as per usual— consequent events unfolded just as the Countess had dictated.

 

Which is how Rey came to find herself standing at the threshold of her roomette, whispering sweet nothings to her betrothed so as not to awaken her mother-in-law, whose snores could be heard emanating through the walls of the adjacent berth. Ben’s warm hands skimmed lightly down her figure, swathed as it was in a flannel sleeping shirt and dressing gown.

 

“Sweet dreams, Miss Jakku,” he teased, lips and mustache brushing her cheek as he spoke. He towered over her, his broad body blocking the drafts of the sleeping car’s corridor.

 

“Are you so eager to leave?” she whimpered, before attempting to corral her spiraling appetence. He _should_ leave. It would be proper for him to leave. Still, her hands bunched the fabric of his lapels, bringing him closer— she craved his warmth, and his body, and his company. Her berth had rather a chill, or so she imagined.

 

“I have completed my sole mission, to bid you goodnight. I must go.” Though his words were sharp, his tone (low, purring, almost a groan) and his expression (eyes hot like liquid tar, pouring over her face and figure) were decidedly not.

 

She could tell he was battling his own carnality; Rey was prepared to fight dirtily in order to tip the scales.

 

Leaning up into him, on her tippy toes, she caught him in a slow kiss. Distracting him thusly, she slid one hand down his shirtfront until she reached his groin— pleased to find it swollen, straining against his trousers— and brushed the backs of her fingers across its estimable surface.

 

“Rey,” he warned.

 

“Hm?” she asked, all artless innocence. She watched his face, and clocked the moment that his objective shifted to align with hers.

 

He sighed when she began to knead his stiff sinew with her palm. “Are you desirous of a more thorough osculation then, my love?” he asked, in a soft undertone.

 

She pushed her bottom lip out at him. “You know very well that I am.”

 

“And where are you most desirous to receive such attentions?”

 

He brushed the pad of his thumb across her jutting lip, then huffed when she snatched at his wrist and brought his massive paw down to the apex of her thighs. “Here,” she said. Even through her robe and nightgown, she could feel the heat of herself there; she supposed he could too. Just the pressure of his hand had her licking her lips, and with that action, she knew she had sealed his fate.

 

Ben hazarded a quick glance out into the corridor to ensure that no one had seen him, nor that anyone was approaching, and— finding the coast clear— he stepped inside, quietly shutting the door behind him, then lowered the sash so that its window was covered.

 

Short of breath, he turned back to her. “On your berth, cabbage.”

 

With a victorious grin, she did as he commanded, laying supine and— after a moment’s reticence during which he sat down at the end of the bed and began to gently stroke her calves— she spread her thighs for him.

 

“Rey. My perfect Rey,” he sighed, gazing at her undoubtedly slick cunny. “You must endeavor to remain quiet. Can you manage it?”

 

Feverishly, she nodded. At that, he ducked his head down beneath her nightgown, and proceeded to take her apart with his tongue.

 

 _Tradition,_ she though, as she climaxed on his lips, _might not be so bad after all._

  
 

####  **v. The Breakfast After.**

 

 

Though they had cherry-picked which traditions to uphold and which to reject for the ceremony— a result of many hours’ confabulation between the bride and bridegroom, for given her druthers she would have chosen to include none and he would have wished to include all— the wedding breakfast was, to be sure, very traditional.

 

Three separate cakes had been prepared for the event: for the guests, a dense fruitcake topped with candied almonds and cherries; for Miss Jakku, a most delicate Victoria sponge, light and airy with a layer of whipped double cream in the middle and royal icing slathered atop; and for the groom, a sumptuous red velvet confection, generously adorned with rich ermine icing.

 

Other sweetmeats had been prepared for those who gathered in the dining room of the Hotel Sunspire, along with the more typical breakfast fare: eggs, ham, toast, tongue, Johnnycakes, waffles and maple syrup (for they were in Vermont, after all).

 

And so after eating their fill, the guests’ and groom’s cake were cut, Rey and Ben doing the proverbial honors, his large hand wrapped around hers on the knife as they sliced through the confectioneries. Slices were dispensed, and enjoyed, or at least, politely sampled, and the bride’s cake was carefully boxed up, to be saved until the couple’s twenty-fifth anniversary.

 

In a whirlwind of activity, Rey found herself whisked up to her room, helped out of her wedding apparel and into her dark plaid traveling gown and accompanying chatelaine purse of the same fabric, along with her thick leather boots and gloves, and a modest bonnet. Her trunk, having already been packed the night before, was carried away by the hotel’s footmen, and then almost before she knew it, Leia was pecking her on both cheeks and wishing her the very happiest of honeymoons. Rose and Kaydel bid her bon voyage in the same fashion, and as custom dictated, she plucked a spinebarrel blossom from her bouquet for each of them. Then there was a lively round of goodbyes with all of the other wedding guests; the Count’s ‘uncle’ Chevy, most notably, pulled her into a hearty hug and thanked her for her influence upon his so-called nephew.

 

The location of the honeymoon was a secret, of course, to all attendants but the bride, the groom, and his best men. So after vague well wishes were given for whatever their holiday might be, Misters Dameron and Ŝtormoŝipo bundled them into a carriage upon which their guests showered handfuls of rice and from which the groom, after tugging loose the lacy garter from Rey’s thigh, threw said garter into the small crowd. And then they were off.

 

They had perhaps fifteen minutes to stare moonily at each other while attempting to maintain a conversation with Poe and Finn, as they rattled along the old dirt roads between Eden and the neighboring depot. Then there was a train to board, luggage to be loaded, their double-berthed compartment to find, and more farewells to be shared between the groomsmen and the couple.

 

Eventually, though, the train’s steam whistle let out a shrieking bellow and their friends hurried back down to the platform, where they waved cheerfully as train lurched forward, then began to roll away from the station…

 

And then they were alone. Married, and alone.

 

Exhausted, Rey slumped down into the leather berth, and peered up at the pale, stern visage of her new husband. Sternness cracked, his neat mustache gave a slight twitch, and his eyes grew heated as he seated himself beside her.

 

With a happy sigh, she laid her head upon his arm, content to sway with the train, listen to its engine rumble and its wheels churn along the steel tracks, hold her husband’s hand, and watch the montane forests of Vermont fly past their compartment window. Gently, he reached beneath her chin to untie her bonnet ribbon, then remove it. She gave an appreciative hum, fatigue making the noise faint; he chuckled before shifting to pull her body in towards his, an arm around her shoulders.

 

Just as her eyes were slipping closed, she felt him press a kiss into her hair.

 

“I love you,” she mumbled, and heard him respond in kind, before drowsiness overtook her and she tumbled into sleep.

 

 

####  **vi. The Day Before.**

 

 

One tradition that Rey did not abandon (as she knew it would be some time before she would see her friends again) was that of separating herself from the bridegroom, on the eve of their nuptials. In fact, on this tradition— she insisted. So it was that the Count came to offer a rueful salutation, at breakfast on the morn before the day, in the dining room of the Hotel Sunspire. Then he and his groomsmen were off, for he and Misters Dameron and Ŝtormoŝipo had rather involved plans. Hunting was to be the order of the day, wild turkey or ruffed grouse or some other kind of waterfowl— Rey found she was not very much interested in the variety of their game— and a hearty meal down at Eden’s local pub, afterwards. Accompanied, no doubt, with lager or stout or spirits or perhaps, all of the above.

 

For herself, she was rather content to change into her hiking costume— thick navy blue woolen bloomers and a truncated set of skirts, with well-worn boots and a jaunty cap atop her pinned up hair— and set off to explore the beautiful woodlands surrounding Eden.

 

The Duchess and Miss Connix were decked out in similar fashion, and in addition, Her Grace brought along a tin vasculum, which she strung around her person by its hemp strap, in the spirit of scientific discovery, and for the purpose of collecting specimens of note. Rose was well-known for her scientific pursuits and analytic mind in both the old world and the new, infamous especially amongst titans of industry for her insistence on the implementation of new technology that might make the employees of the duchy’s mines safer; it was a facet of her personality that her fiancé, Mister Ŝtormoŝipo, found most appealing. For her part, Miss Connix was content to gather fallen leaves whose hue was especially brilliant, with the intention to press them into a book at some later date.

 

In a pleasant glade somewhere in the hills around Eden Lake, the ladies unfolded a blanket upon the dry-leaf strewn grass, laid out their luncheon, poured themselves hearty mugs of cider, and toasted to the last hours of Rey’s maidenhood.

 

“Are you very nervous, dearest?” asked Rose. Above them the fluttering leaves formed a magnificent golden bower, and the air held just a hint of cold bite.

 

Rey smiled into her cider, taking a hearty gulp, before answering. “A bit. But more… excited, I should think.”

 

Kaydel bit into her sandwich, her brow furrowed. When she’d finished chewing, she exclaimed, “I know it is bad luck to disclose the location of your nuptial journey, but… couldn’t you give us a hint?”

 

That elicited a sheepish laugh from Rey. “Do you know, in all the hullabaloo of the last few weeks, I didn’t realize I hadn’t told you?”

 

“So you will break with tradition, and tempt the fates, then?” Rose smiled at her, and her smile grew when Rey laughed again.

 

“Easily, and without a second thought,” she declared. “We travel to Niagara Falls tomorrow.”

 

“A romantic choice!” cried Kaydel.

 

“The Count’s, of course,” Rey said, cheerfully. “That is rather his way.”

 

“It is, isn’t it?” Rose sighed, chin in her hand. “His exhortations upon Mister Ŝtormoŝipo in that field have proven most successful, you know.”

 

“Have they now!” Kaydel giggled without abandon, head thrown back and golden curls bouncing. “What felicity!” she added, with a wink.

 

“Oh, you.” Rose gave a prim little nod, but her smile was coquettish. “But… yes. It is.” Then, before either woman could inquire further, she redirected the conversation back to Rey. “Niagara Falls is a wonderful choice. Where shall you stay?”

 

“He has… rented a very discreet honeymoon suite, at the Grand Bespin Hotel,” she confided. “A most picturesque location, I believe.”

 

“And you aren’t concerned about the… defloration? He is not a diminutive fellow, as you well know,” said Kaydel.

 

Rey huffed. “In all things relating to me, he is the very picture of gentleness.”

 

Both Kaydel and Rose appeared to be satisfied with that answer, and the conversation drifted towards other topics, pertaining to the specimens of fungi and flora Rose had collected, and the most recent news from her duchy, and Kaydel’s intention towards learning the ropes of her father’s industry so that she might one day take the reins of his casinos and perhaps steer a portion of the profits towards more socially beneficial avenues. Relaxed, amiable, perhaps a tad wistful— in this manner they whiled away the hours of that crisp Autumn Tuesday, before returning to the hotel to bathe, and share a warm supper.

 

And if, when her fiancé quietly rapped his knuckles on her door later so as to steal a covert kiss, Rey recalled Kaydel’s words and lent an appraising eye to his considerable size— broad shoulders, heavily muscled torso and arms whose density was apparent even through his layers of apparel, towering height that forced even Rey, a tall woman by most standards, to tilt her head back, a hint of his prodigious engine visible even through his trousers and most certainly tangible when he leaned his great body against hers—

 

Well.

 

She could be circumspect, when necessary. And that knowledge— what he looked like, what he smelled like, the size of him in her hand and in her mouth, the very small worry that she did indeed harbor about their first tupping— that was between her, and him.

 

They would navigate those waters when they reached them, she decided, and banished the anxiety from her mind.

 

 

####  **vii. Two Days Hence.**

 

 

Technically, they were on the Canadian side of the river, and therefore, Rey was visiting yet another new country, one step further removed from her native England. The remnant of the girl that had grown up in a children’s home, then a workhouse, always scraping, never seeing anything outside the dull industrial town where she had been abandoned, relished this thought. From a settee in their honeymoon suite, the woman who had survived those terrible early years stared out the window at the waterfalls; streaked with white foam where the currents of roaring aegean blue struck up against each other, rushing over that precipitous drop in a colossal veil of aquamarine, hemmed by mist and spume, wreathed by burnt orange foliage— they were truly a wonder.

 

Beside her, the Count turned the page, and continued his narration. “Sonnet Forty-Three,” he rumbled. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways—”

 

“Oh, I adore this one!” Rey cut in, and from memory, she took up with the poem. “I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach…” here she faltered, attempting to recall the next words.

 

“…when feeling out of sight, for the ends of being and ideal grace,” Ben supplied.

 

“Mm,” she hummed, and as she had on the train for the past two days whilst they sat side-by-side, watching Vermont and then New York slip by, she leaned into his body, and folded her fingers through the large hand that rested on her hip. “And how dost thou love me, my lord?”

 

“Freely.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Purely.” Another kiss, warmer this time, right against the point in her neck where her pulse was racing. “With the passion put to use in my old griefs.” A third kiss, this one at the corner of her mouth.

 

“That is very good,” she gasped, and reached for him, intending to bring him closer.

 

But instead of kissing her, he continued to speak. “With a love I seemed to lose, with my lost saints.” He rested his forehead against hers, their eyes so very close, his strong nose pressed against her cheek.

 

“Oh?” she asked, torn between her desire for him to continue and wanting him to just _kiss_ her already, poetry be dratted. From some wellspring of resolve she hadn’t realized she possessed, Rey mustered the wherewithal to prompt: “With your childhood’s faith?”

 

“More,” he groaned, and then he did kiss her, and very soundly.

 

She reached for his hair, in which she so loved to thread her fingers, at the same moment that he pulled her to him, and abruptly rose from the settee, setting her on her feet.

 

“Off,” he said, panting. “How do we take all these… layers… off?”

 

Before she could even answer, he spun her, and began fumbling at the buttons that ran the length of her spine. Even as he worked, he peppered kisses along the column of her neck, and so the work went rather slowly, not that Rey could be bothered to scold him.

 

“My love…”

 

“Yes?” she replied.

 

“This… thing. It has too many buttons,” he groused, scowling at the half-revealed chemise and corset visible beneath her shirtwaist.

 

Rey closed her eyes, and took a moment to calculate the cost of her costume: intended for travel, a shirtwaist and skirts, plus petticoats and underthings. All custom-made for her back in New York, with money inherited from her late benefactress, Lady Kanata. Expensive. One of a kind. Fashionable for at _least_ another six months.

 

But when she opened her eyes, she glanced back at her husband; he was watching her with rapt attention, his dark eyes lidded, clutching the fabric of her shirtwaist in his huge shaking fists.

 

Well. She would only ever have the one honeymoon, wouldn’t she?

 

“Rip it.”

 

His jaw dropped. “Did you—”

 

“You heard me,” she said. “Rip. It. Off. Me.”

 

He pulled at the garment until it stretched taut across her waist and bust. In a low, hoarse voice he asked, “Certain?”

 

“Yes, husband.”

 

At that, she felt him apply his considerable strength. The shirtwaist did not stand a chance; at once, the dark plaid cotton gave way, and tiny buttons were sent flying to the four corners of the room. In quick order he spun her again, then tore at the waistline of her skirts and petticoats in the same manner while she removed the tattered shirtwaist. He reached for her camisole, seemingly bent on seeing this through— an impatient child with an overly-wrapped present— but she halted him with a hand on his chest.

 

His eyes flew from their hungry path down her body, up to her face.

 

“This, I can remove myself,” she told him, her tone sharp but her smile coy. No sooner was the camisole over her head then his hands were once again clutching at her— this time, the lace-lined top of her corset.

 

“Please tell me you have another, wife,” he begged. She gave a small nod. Exultant, he grit his teeth, and wrenched apart the overlapping pieces, held together by its busk. They fought valiantly against him, but in the end, each metal hook and eye gave way with a slight ‘plink!’.

 

Rey could not help but find it thrilling, how completely out of sorts he was. Breathless, his barrel chest heaving, he ran his hands through his usually neat locks— now disheveled, and hanging in his face— and bit out, “The rest of it. Off.”

 

“I shall.”

 

But she did not yet touch her cotton chemise, her drawers, or her stockings; too deep was her enjoyment of this turn of events. For hadn’t she been grasping at him, begging him for more, more, more, since that fated Cape May afternoon when they had sequestered themselves away in the bathing machine? Hadn’t he been the one to deny her so vigorously? Hadn’t she suggested that he give her a green gown during their two nights spent sleeping on the train on the way to the falls, lonely for him while she slept in the narrow berth overhead and he in the one below? Hadn’t he denied her even then, instead plying her with irrumation and spending himself on her belly?

 

He had. And now— he looked like a desperate man, a crazed man. She wanted to savor this moment, his lust, her own anticipation.

 

“But first—I believe you are overdressed, sir.”

 

“Blazes,” he swore, an irritated hiss, and tore at his cravat. It was a mad dash for him, a scramble to remove all of his own many layers— his black tweed frock-coat, and waistcoat, then his suspenders, shirtsleeves, trousers, undershirt, drawers.

 

By comparison, her few remaining undergarments were much easier. And before she knew it, his body was joined to hers once more, strong arms encircling her waist. They were chest to chest, once he raised himself to his full height, leaving her feet dangling several inches from the ground. Acres of smooth alabaster skin, interrupted here and there by a constellation of moles or a scar from his undoubtedly dark history… and warm, so warm, pressed as it was against her. She laid her hand on his cheek, and toyed with the edge of his mustache.

 

“Husband,” she crooned, soft and low.

 

Then they were moving. The journey was a short one— she was deposited onto the bed before she even really registered where they were headed. Ben’s cock, already standing at attention, leaked something viscous onto her belly, their limbs were all a-tangle, and yet… he did not advance. Leisurely, he explored her mouth with his: slow kisses, begging entrance, and then a stroke of his velvet tongue against hers.

 

“Wife,” he murmured, once he retreated to catch his breath. “My sweet wife.”

 

“Do you know what?” she asked, as he began to kiss his way down to her breasts, “I’m not so sure that coitus _is_ so very important, Benjamin.” He looked up sharply at that, eyes narrowed, which made her laugh. “I have had you in every way but this.” She grabbed hold of his cock; it was rigid, but the skin there was velveteen and so smooth, save for the veins that traveled up its stalk. “I have known intimacy, and joy, and pleasure with you,” she concluded. “Perhaps my haste was ill-founded.”

 

His expression softened, fingers slipped through her crisp curls to pet her slick folds. “‘Tis but a symbolic threshold… And a physical one.”

 

“Perhaps not,” she countered.

 

“Explain?”

 

“Many women, despite attempts made to protect their chastity, are subject to jostling whilst riding a velocipede, or a horse.”

 

He choked back a laugh, nestling the valley of her breasts. One thick finger breached her, then eased its way in. “Fascinating.”

 

“Is it?” she tried to ask— only it came out as something more like a squeak, for he had begun to beckon with his finger inside her, rubbing against something towards the front of her quim which set her thighs twitching, glorious heat spreading out from her core. And in turn, she tightened her grasp on him.

 

“Christ,” he huffed.

 

More fluid, diaphanous pearly white, beaded up and over the thick head of his cock. Rey knew the taste of the stuff, and something about that knowledge made her blush _more_ than the feeling of Ben’s hand working her (two fingers now, and she could feel the pinch) or his mouth, sucking a lovebite into her neck.

 

Although… those things made her blush too.

 

And so it went, her distracted hand on him, his focused digits inside of her, thumb quite thoroughly kneading her pearl, until she been reduced to incoherent whimpers. The clenching and unclenching inside her cunny came on first as a sharp, steep peak whereupon she thought she might truly perish, before mellowing into a series of rolling hills over which Ben’s hands and lips guided her.

 

At last, beaded over in perspiration and clinging to an equally diaphoretic Ben, she gently pushed his hand away from her, too sensitive for touch. A lewd squelching noise emanated from her quim at the removal and she buried her flushed face in his solid chest, mortified.

 

“Perfect,” he said, as he always did when they were engaged in this way.

 

“Don’t tease.”

 

“Rey.” Ben’s finger beneath her chin brought her face up, and the barely-restrained desire she saw there, in his flared nostrils, his pouting lips, his wide pupils, did bring her some measure of comfort; she was not alone in her ardor. “I would never.” She knew the truth of it then: her marriage bed, unlike so many places Rey had resided in her lifetime, would not be a lonely one.

 

Their lips met, a gentle kiss.

 

“My lord,” she said, breaking away to stare once more at his peculiar, handsome face.

 

“Yes, my lady?”

 

“I was rather wondering if you were going to ravish me on our wedding journey,” she japed, “or if you intend for us to return to New York with the marriage unconsummated.”

 

His smile reached all the way to his eyes, crinkling them as it creased his cheeks. Gingerly, he rose from the bedding— stiff cock still bobbing against his stomach, and Rey felt a moment’s pang of remorse that she had not tended to him more diligently with her hand— and padded over to his steamer trunk.

 

“Are you procrastinating, Ben?” She burrowed deeper into the plush mattress, enjoying her lazy perusal of his posterior whilst he dug around in the trunk’s contents— hard, thick muscles carved from hunting and sport, buttocks firm although not abundant, a thin layer of dark hair upon his thighs and calves. Her husband really was an excellent specimen, and Rey chortled a little to herself, in delight.

  

“Ben?” she prompted. His Christian name sounded very fine, coming from her. She enjoyed saying it, and seeing as how she was now quite at liberty to say it whenever she pleased… “ _Ben_.”

 

“No…” he answered, distractedly. And then, with a small bottle of something in his hand, he turned back to her. “Er, yes. Perhaps.”

 

Once he’d returned to her arms, she was better able to espy the contents of the bottle; it was a small flagon of what appeared to be authentic Italian olive oil.

 

“Ben…” she repeated, brows furrowed. Of what possible use…?

 

“This—” He reached down, to caress her folds once more. Involuntarily, her hips bucked at the sensation. “—might feel… unpleasant. For a time. I was informed that the oil might,” another pause, in which the tips of his ears turned almost puce, “…ease the way.”

 

At this, she could not help but smile fondly; she reached up to encircle his neck with her arms. With a nod, she said, “Your mother—”

 

“Rey.”

 

“No, permit me to finish. Your mother gave me a most… comprehensive overview of what to expect during our first, er—” She tugged on him, so that she could hide her own blushing face in his neck, before adding: “…Storm of heaves.”

 

He chuckled, low and rich, then untucked her face so he might kiss her. “Did she,” he drawled, when they’d parted.

 

With his thumb, he unstopped the cork top of the small flagon. There could not be more than a tablespoon of oil within, she thought, reveling in her realization that surely he must have had such an item delivered weeks ago, or had picked it up even farther back, some time during his travels, perhaps with this very intention. He decanted a generous drop of rich golden oil onto his palm, after which he carelessly flung the empty bottle away.

 

“Is it… safe?” she asked, with a nervous swallow.

 

“Perfectly,” he said, applying the oil-laden hand to his arbor vitae— firm, solid strokes, completely covering the thick organ. He glanced up at her, and must have noticed her nervousness, because he swooped in for another gentle kiss. Then: “The Ancient Greeks did it.”

 

“The Ancient Greeks did a great many things.” Her voice was more tremulous than she’d intended, for he had returned his still-lubricated fingers to her entrance; two warm slippery fingers spread within her like the gentle blades of a pair of scissors. The pinch was far less now, the warmth far greater, and even at this gentle ministration, she felt the sting of pleasure creep its way across her limbs, her cunny, her chest. “Many of them were… _quite_ unsound.”

 

“This is sound,” he assured her. Thereupon he removed his hand, giving her now excessively slick folds a light pat, and replaced them with the weeping head of his cock.

 

Pressure. Light at first, then increasing, as he slipped inside, her folds spreading to accommodate. A gentle rocking of his hips, and Rey rested her hands upon his flanks, to encourage him. Wrapping her legs around his, she canted her hips up, concurrent with his downward thrust, and found herself half-speared, split open. She knew not if her maidenhead had been pierced by him, and it mattered not, because it burned and stung all the same.

 

She whimpered, and hearing the sound, he froze. “My love,” he whispered, “you are in pain?” His dark brows were pinched together, a look of concentration and worry, and his lower lip wobbled.

 

“Go,” she urged, heels dug into the back of his thighs, “all the way, finish it.”

 

So he did. With a heavy exhale and a deep grunt, he plunged deep within, his ballocks tapping her fairest flower, a root deeply planted. Out of morbid curiosity, she reached down to pat the shallow dip of her pelvis, between her hip bones, and fancied it might be him she could feel there, so massive was his organ and so large his body relative to hers that he was tangible, even through her flesh.

 

She meant to speak, to say something clever and worldly that a sophisticated married woman might say, but all that came out was a soft keening moan.

 

“Shall I move now, cabbage?” he asked, once more using the special nickname he had adopted after their first congress, which was meant only for her ears, only when they were ensnared like this, in bed together.

 

“Please.”

 

Craning her neck, she brushed a kiss against his jaw. It was all the urging he required— at once he withdrew, then began to thrust. A pounding rhythm, their skin wetly smacking, their hips crashing together then fleeing, and inside, oh, inside! Heat, from where his rigid cock rubbed against the walls of her quim— and in her limbs as well. Tendrils of sweat-dampened hair stuck to her brow and his, and their eyes never parted; his were thin halos of caramel and coffee, around midnight dark pupils. They were riveted to her face, as he moved, straying only momentarily to appreciate how her breasts bounced with each thrust.

 

She cried aloud, for he was brushing that same part of her he’d found with his fingers, all those weeks ago, and he had re-applied a thumb to that sensitive nub. Tighter, higher, faster, harder, all sensations blurred into a prismatic burst of pleasure, like the rainbow-filled mist hovering around a waterfall. And as if to emulate the famous waterfalls outside their windows, Rey felt the dam break, and what felt to be a great gush issued forth: a release, replete with quivering both inside and out.

 

Ever more vigorously did he hammer at her; she urged him to collapse his elbows and rest his full weight upon her, and she knew she would be sore when all was said and done. But she could hardly bring herself to care, sensitive as she was, desirous as she was to _feel_ Ben finally reach that same rushing climax she had just experienced— inside her.

 

“Let go, my love,” she bid, against his scarred cheek. She kissed him there, squeezed two handfuls of buttocks to bring him close, close, as close as any two bodies could be. In her need for him to experience his flood of bliss, she bore down upon him, clenching with whatever strength she had left.

 

A great shudder passed through his heavy form; his hips stuttered, he released a guttural moan, and went still.

 

Perhaps it was only her imagination, but she thought she could feel warmth— always, everything about her husband was warm— bloom inside her, where he had spent himself.

 

Gingerly, panting, he released her from his clutches, and pulled out of her. A trickle followed his exodus, their mingled fluids. Collapsing next to her, he tugged her body across the mattress— on which she spied several faint rust-hued drops, so he _had_ taken her maidenhead after all— until she felt the front of him flush against her back. Lifting her thigh and swinging it backwards, so that she was somewhat sprawled over him, he brought his hand back down to her cunt. There he scooped up the escaped essences, and with painstaking care, pushed them back inside.

 

Still winded, head pillowed on the shoulder Ben rested on the mattress, she could just barely manage to quip: “Is _that_ a new tradition, then?”

 

“Would it be so very terrible? To make something new?” His question was nearly smothered by her hair, in which he burrowed his face.

 

Idly, Rey pondered that— what if this engagement were to bear fruit, a honeymoon baby?

 

That would not be so very terrible at all, she decided. So she shook her head, and received his proffered kiss with the utmost welcome. Then she settled in to watch the timeless cascade of water over the cliffs of Niagara, content to nestle her well-used body into the large solid mass of her husband, which— as he always did, just for her— became yielding, and pliant; tenderly, he curled himself about her, tangling first their legs, and then their fingers, over her womb. A soft sigh was issued, his or hers she couldn’t say, or perhaps it was a shared exhalation of relief and contentment.

 

“I am glad we kept this tradition, husband.” She brought their twined hands up to kiss his knuckles. “And I am _quite_ prepared to make some new ones with you.”

 

“When I have my wits about me once more, I’ll fetch the champagne,” he said, hushed, adoring. “We shall have a toast. To old _and_ new.”

 

“To old and new,” she echoed. “Yes. I like the sound of that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Despite the fact that this fic is ridiculous, I _did_ actually do some research for it (although I'm sure inaccuracies abound!). In case you wanted to learn more about stuff, here are some links :)
> 
> Victorian Weddings:  
> [Prep and Traditions](http://www.literary-liaisons.com/article003.html)  
> [Cakes & Celebrations](http://www.victorian-era.org/victorian-era-wedding.html)  
> [More Wedding Cakes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wedding_cake#History)  
> [Wedding Breakfast](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wedding_breakfast)  
> Some reference pictures of Victorian brides: [1](http://www.shorpy.com/files/images/SHORPY-141105-0008B1.preview.jpg) [2](https://78.media.tumblr.com/5241c55833ae1f00687f4d0ed2f0357a/tumblr_ow93garlFl1tcqhjho1_500.jpg) [3](https://78.media.tumblr.com/2a250eb6f59d2b60c0cf977e1fd826df/tumblr_oaura1x6y91tcqhjho1_500.png) [4](https://c1.staticflickr.com/6/5022/5700684284_e4d9892841_b.jpg)  
> What's up with that dumb [garter](https://www.snopes.com/fact-check/bridal-garter/) tradition?  
> [Honeymoons](http://www.victorian-era.org/victorian-era-honeymoon.html)
> 
> Victorian Clothes:  
> Underwear: [Ladies](http://www.tudorlinks.com/treasury/articles/viewvictunder2.html) and [Gentlemen](http://mentalfloss.com/article/22897/boxers-briefs-or-loincloth-brief-history-mens-underwear) (also: [busk](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Busk))  
> [Pajamas](https://www.mattressadvisor.com/the-evolution-of-sleepwear/)  
> [Traveling Clothes](http://www.sewhistorically.com/victorian-and-edwardian-traveling-and-traveling-costumes/)  
> [Etiquette](http://www.vintageconnection.net/DressEtiquette.htm)  
> What are the names of all the [parts of a dress?](http://www.krwg.org/post/how-read-dress-connects-centuries-women-through-fashion)  
> [Different Clothes for Different Occasions](http://www.thisvictorianlife.com/everyday-clothes.html)  
> Not exactly clothes, but: [Regency-Era Cologne](https://thecozydrawingroom.com/2016/07/03/how-to-smell-like-a-regency-era-gentleman)
> 
>  
> 
> [Church Inspiration](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Dutch_Church_of_Sleepy_Hollow)
> 
>  
> 
> Victorian [Wallpaper](https://www.bradbury.com/victorian/woodland.html)
> 
> What is a [Gibson Girl](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gibson_Girl)? How can I recreate that [look](https://hellogiggles.com/fashion/make-up-a-history-the-victorian-era-gibson-girl-style/)?
> 
> Victorian [Amusement Parks](http://www.victorian-era.org/victorian-era-amusement-parks.html)
> 
> Victorian Slang:  
> [Vulgarities](http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-real/victorian-vulgarities)  
> [An Entire Book on the Matter](https://publicdomainreview.org/collections/a-dictionary-of-victorian-slang-1909/)  
> [Euphemisms for 'Clitoris'](http://historyhoydens.blogspot.com/2007/03/back-on-euphemism-express.html)
> 
> Star Wars References:  
> [Naboo](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Naboo), [Chandrila](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Chandrila), the [Otomok System](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Otomok_system)  
> [Naboo Night Pearl](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Naboo_night_pearl)  
> [Wedding Dress](https://www.theweddingsecret.co.uk/magazine/iconic-wedding-dresses-in-film-star-wars/) of Padmé Amidala  
> [Spinebarrel](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Spinebarrel)  
> [Hotel Sunspire](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Hotel_Sunspire) and [Grand Bespin Hotel](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Grand_Bespin_Hotel)
> 
> [Sleeper Cars](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleeping_car#Night_trains_today) on Trains
> 
> Niagara Falls, [Honeymoon Capital of the World](http://today-magazine.com/niagara-falls-the-honeymoon-capital-of-the-world/) 
> 
> [Poem](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/how-do-i-love-thee-sonnet-43) Ben reads to Rey, _Sonnet 43_ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
> 
> Okay that's all from me. Thank you for reading! ❤️


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